It means, “We don’t know.”
It means, “I refuse to judge you.”
It means, “Too much is at stake
to pretend I’m aware when I’m not.”
It means, “Oh, self, you have tried
to build a fortress out of scribbles,
but the world is a giant eraser.”
It means, “Sometimes the root
offers more shade than the tree.”
It means, “There is so much
we don’t understand.”
It means, “Here, let me
meet you with open hands.”
Posts Tagged ‘not knowing’
Ignoramus: An Aspirational Etymology of Sorts
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged aspriation, etymology, not knowing, openness on July 25, 2023| 21 Comments »
Walking Again in Rome, Georgia, at Night
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged georgia, loss, love, not knowing, south, walking on June 20, 2023| 7 Comments »
When the night is warm
and the magnolia blossoms
twine sweetness into the humid dark
and the summer-loud frogs
fill the night with strange song,
I notice you are not here.
I notice the silence
that walks beside me.
There is comfort in it,
the space where your body
might have been.
Perhaps the connection
is something I’ve fashioned
out of longing for connection.
Does that make it any less real?
I speak to you, ask you questions.
I don’t expect answers.
I get none.
All around me, the fireflies
charge the world
with their beautiful,
fleeting light.
I Don’t Know
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged garden, not knowing, spring, surprise, words on May 3, 2021| Leave a Comment »
Today, I notice something green
spearing through the dirt
in the garden, and only
because there are eight such spears
rising in perfect rows do I vaguely remember
last year I planted bulbs there,
but I don’t remember what they are.
How much of the beauty we plant
do we forget?
There is so much in me that grows
because of words you have sown.
I doubt you remember them,
I don’t remember them, either,
only that your words were kind
and now they have taken root.
Who knows what the flowers
will look like? I water them, though,
trust I’ll be delighted when they bloom
into a garden of beautiful I don’t know.
Tonight Is a Torn Map
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged inner journey, map, not knowing, sitting still on August 3, 2020| 2 Comments »
Tonight is a torn map
and the woman
is a would-be voyager.
Once, she believed
there was a path.
Now, she believes
there are many.
Sitting still
beside the river,
she notices
the urge to rise,
notices when
the urge has passed.
Notices it rise again.
Being still
is one of the hardest
paths of all.
All around her
the world is moving—
gurgling, waving,
weaving, crawling,
climbing, winging, falling,
eroding. And in her,
more movement
than she dares to admit—
not just mudslides,
tectonic shifts—
every day the landscapes
change. Every day
the inner map she drew
looks less like what’s
really there.
It was no mistake
when it ripped.
Find this poem published in the amazing ONE ART POETRY
From What I’ve Tasted of Desire
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged apocalypse, knowing, love, not knowing, poem, poetry on August 9, 2014| 1 Comment »
If without warning the world were to end
at 6:05 tonight, I would like to be holding your hand
at 6:02 and sitting on the back porch
in the low angled gold August light.
Maybe we would be talking about the birds—
what kind of swallows do you think those are?
And you would say, violet green swallows,
and even if we were not sure it was correct,
it would give us pleasure to know the answer.
We would lean back and watch as they keel
through the air just above our heads.
And at 6:04, we would not know to be concerned
about what would happen next. It is sometimes
better that way, not knowing, I mean,
especially when the cosmos in the garden
are just now in an uprising of bright pink bloom
and the grass in the field is taller
than our heads and if we breathe in
deeply, it smells as if the rain is about to come.
As the Broken Do
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged breaking, losing the self, love, not knowing, poem, poetry, righteousness on November 18, 2013| 4 Comments »
The liars lie and the stealers
steal and the lovers love and
the takers take. The fighters
fight and the restless do not
rest. And also true, the liars
love and the fighters steal
and the restless take
and the lovers fight and all of us,
all of us want to be right.
May I be wrong. May I come
to you without my books,
without my rules, without
my shoulds. Let me always
arrive at your door with empty hands.
Let me meet you with my pockets
full of blank, not convinced
of anything except
the possibility of everything.
Let me be wrong. Let me not label anyone
a liar. Let me bottom out.
What is it in us that wants to be right?
I have seen it turn a whole month, a whole life
to ice. I have felt the chains of certainty,
I have worn the shackles of listen-to-me.
Let me be wrong. Let there be chinks
in my belief. Let there be splinters
in my conviction. Look how alone it is
in this hour when I am so perfectly right.
May my rules go begging. May my imperatives
learn to crawl. May my righteousness hold
an empty bowl. May my musts all redden to rust.
And may I be wrong as the wrongers are wrong.
And may I unknow. And unlearn.
And unselve. And love as the lovers love.
*with a first line taken from David J. Rothman, “And Remember to Be Kind to Yourself”
But Where Does it Come From?
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged not knowing, poem, poetry, spring, uncertainty on March 28, 2013| 6 Comments »
These days are a mad gamble,
winter or spring, snow storm or sunburn,
though there is no mistaking
who’s leading the dance.
Overnight the pond ice
is gone. A bird we can’t name
dives below the open water
and we gasp, wondering how long
he can stay under there.
How long have we been under,
holding our breaths, fishing
for something, we know not what.
How long has it been winter?
There is frost in my hair.
Coming up for air, is that what we
are doing? It is hard to not notice
the spells that spring weaves
on the wind—scent of thaw,
scent of emergence, scent of divulgence,
scent of almost green. What are we becoming?
The tulip, it knows what will blossom
at the end of its stem. The jonquil,
the chokecherry, the avens. Are we,
too, predetermined in our unfolding?
I used to think I knew something about
how our story goes. That was before
the spine fell off the book and the pages
fluttered away like so many swooping starlings.
Let’s not try to answer anything. The ground
itself is breaking. The buds are breaking.
The vine is pushing life through what looks dead.
It is not that the prayers worked. It is spring.
Nine Dismantlings
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged allowing, growing, haiku, letting go, not knowing, poem, receptivity on August 9, 2012| 2 Comments »
my hammer, my nails
what good are they now
the whole roof collapsed
*
doe in the meadow
my thoughts in the meadow
one of these is quiet
**
so much to learn
about
not knowing
***
not by the shoulders
but by the soul
life shakes me
****
hands bloody
tearing down a wall
that isn’t even there
*****
doe in the meadow
my thoughts in the meadow
one of these is quiet
******
at the same time
the tree grows
toward darkness, toward light
*******
so open my hands
not holding
my hammer, my nails
*********
surrounded by rubble
still I beg Love, keep having
your way with me
Six Overflowings
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged darkness, haiku, not knowing, overflowing, poem on July 8, 2012| 5 Comments »
every moment flees its own overflowing
—Karen Chamberlain, Ephedra
no birds wheel
in the air tonight—
wings in my song
*
swallowing darkness
in great gulps
a few stars catch in my teeth
*
I really thought
I knew something
about not knowing
*
gathering ephedra
my hands
are not my own hands
*
naked
I wear
a red dress
*
the night sky offered
to loan me its black skirt
hope it’s not too small
How Would We Know
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bug, darkness, infinity, insect, light, not knowing, poem on June 26, 2012| 2 Comments »
We remark those bugs
that hurl themselves
toward the light
and perhaps, because
we too are focused there,
we miss all those insects
that rocket themselves
deeper and deeper
quiet, as fast as they can
into the infinite dark.